


in his shoes

by bonebo



Series: Reaper76 Week '17 [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Discord - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Strife - Freeform, Violence, but they love each other i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 03:44:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9366542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: “What the fuck is this.”The mission file is slapped onto Jack’s desk with acrackand he has to concentrate to contain his sigh; it’s too early in the morning for him to deal with having his ass chewed by someone he outranks. He looks up into the irritated frown trademarked to Gabriel Reyes--the stern face that launched a dozen black ops military careers--and slowly, carefully, lets out a breath.“...that’s a mission folder, Gabe.”





	

“What the fuck is this.”

The mission file is slapped onto Jack’s desk with a _crack_ and he has to concentrate to contain his sigh; it’s too early in the morning for him to deal with having his ass chewed by someone he outranks. He looks up into the irritated frown trademarked to Gabriel Reyes--the stern face that launched a dozen black ops military careers--and slowly, carefully, lets out a breath.

“...that’s a mission folder, Gabe.”

“Don’t get smart with me,” Gabriel snaps, tone sharp and accusatory--enough so to have anyone else disciplined for insubordination. Jack sets his jaw and debates facing that fire. “Have you read this? Did you see what the target is? What the fuck is going on, Morrison?”

Jack scowls as he grabs the folder, flipping it open; he’s not had his coffee yet and his eyes are still heavy with sleep, but even through his brief skimming he can see a few words and phrases that bring up red flags: ‘ _kidnap’, ‘child’, ‘whatever means necessary’._ After a moment of tired, angry staring, he tosses the folder back down onto the desk with a heavy sigh. “Gabe--”

“No, don’t you _‘Gabe’_ me,” Gabriel cuts in, slamming his hands down onto the desk to brace himself as he leans in closer to Jack; his eyes are bright with an intensity that Jack rarely sees anymore, even in the brief moments they do have to spend together. It makes something in his gut stir. “What the fuck is going on? Your comm’s been silent for a week and then I wake up with this bullshit--” He slaps the file like it’s done him some personal wrong, “--sitting on my desk? There are orders in here to kidnap a 16 year old _child_ , Jack. To use her _own_ kid as leverage. You’re ordering Blackwatch to storm into a house and put a gun to a kid’s head, in the name of _American decency_.” 

Jack rubs at his temple with two fingers, eyes closed. He really, _really_ could use his coffee right now. “Gabriel, I didn’t order--”

“Overwatch did,” Gabriel hisses, his fingers curling into fists, nails biting into the wood of the desk until his knuckles go white. “And in case you forgot, _Golden Boy_ , you got chosen for that job--”

“You’re damn right I did!” Jack snaps back, and he’s on his feet so fast his head spins with it, angry glare boring into Gabriel’s eyes with a vehemence to match the other man’s. He’s too tired, too sore, to deal with this right now. 

“I am the Strike-Commander,” he says tightly, and it takes everything in him to keep his voice level, to keep himself from raging--he’s supposed to be above arguing with his subordinates, but ever since the SEP, Gabriel has known all the worst ways to push his buttons. “The Council gives me my orders, and I pass them out as needed, at my discretion. I choose who goes where, and who does what--not you, _Captain Reyes_.”

Something in Gabriel’s eyes flickers at the title, and Jack can see the muscle in his jaw start to twitch. He wonders, fleetingly, if Gabriel will hit him.

But instead Gabriel just straightens his back, lifts his chin. His eyes are hard as flint as he grabs for the file. “Understood, _sir_. Permission to be dismissed.” 

Jack stares at him for a moment, feeling suddenly deflated by Gabriel’s lack of fight--the wind leaving his sails as quickly as it’d come. He drops his head down between his shoulders with a sigh, then gestures toward the door. “Fine--whatever. Permission granted. Go, Gabriel.”

Jack doesn’t hear the footsteps; but when he lifts his head again, his office is again empty.

-x-

It doesn’t stay that way for long.

Gabriel’s not due back at his own base for another two hours, and Jack’s glad for it as he lets his thighs fall open wider, looks down at the dark head bobbing between them. They’re both still mostly clothed--have to be, these days, with how quick and rushed their moments together are forced to be--but luckily, Gabriel’s always been able to adapt on the fly. 

Like now: knees against Jack’s office floor, eyes closed as he works over the hard length pressing into his mouth, against his throat. He’s always had a penchant for giving head, even back during the haze and pain of the SEP days; used to spend hours teasing Jack with it and making him writhe on that old, uncomfortable bunk, but there’s a new fervor to his actions now, something resembling desperation that Jack can’t recall ever seeing before.

Maybe it’s just been too long since he properly looked.

Jack lays his head back in his chair and sucks a breath in through his teeth, hips arching up into the loose, wet heat of Gabriel’s mouth. Like this, it’s easy to forget--forget about Overwatch and Blackwatch and the rift between them, forget about tense relations and how their arguments have lasted longer than their conversations, lately. 

Jack settles his hand loosely atop Gabriel’s head to coax him closer. Gabriel’s eyes flick sharply up to him, dark and wet, something raw in his gaze; Jack wants to lean down and kiss him, wants to close the gap and pull Gabe into his arms and just hold him, ask him, _What went wrong?_

_We survived a war together, why can’t we survive the peace?_

But Gabriel’s gaze drops sharply, and he surges forward with purpose, deepthroating Jack in one smooth motion. Jack’s fingers scrabble against Gabriel’s hair, clutch his curls tight as he cums in sharp pulses down Gabriel’s flexing throat, breath stuttering past his lips. 

After, they fuck in near-silence, save for Gabriel’s occasional gasp when Jack thrusts too deep, too hard, too fast. His fingernails cut crescents into Jack’s shoulders as retribution, and there’s something intentional in the angle of his hips when he cums, jacking himself to release over the navy fabric of Jack’s shirt.

“Goddammit, Gabe,” Jack hisses once he realizes, grabbing for a tissue and dabbing at the mess; Gabriel’s reply comes in a roll of his eyes, the flash of his canines in a small smirk.

He leaves without saying goodbye. When he looks up and notices, Jack isn’t sure if he misses him or not.

-x-

The stealth jet sets down lightly in Blackwatch’s hangar, and Gabriel breathes a sigh of relief to finally be home.

To call their mission a success would be a monumental stretch, a figment of the imagination. Sure--they had removed their target and got the intel Overwatch had requested, but it had come at the cost of one fighter jet with the entire crew: a mix of Blackwatch agents and Overwatch pilots. The jets were fast, but not fast enough to outrun the anti-aircraft artillery aimed at their wings. 

He remembers the chaos. The noise of the explosions, the debris flying through the air, the sight of the jet carrying half his team erupting into flames; he can still hear the screaming that had come across the comm-lines, the unique sounds of the world’s bravest people staring down their deaths--

The calm of his office, the organization, is welcome. Gabriel passes by his desk--glances at the communications monitor uneasily, dreading the call he knows has to come--and heads instead for the adjoined bathroom.

The face that stares back at him in the mirror is covered in grime. Two deep cuts arc across his cheek and up to the bridge of his nose, cut in above his right eye; he remembers the grenade that had caused them, remembers looking up and seeing the same rubble embedded in Agent Traes’ throat. Remembers watching one of his finest agent’s eyes go misty and dim, as he drowned in his own lifeblood.

Gabriel swallows thickly at the memory and drops his gaze, looking instead at the pristine white of the fake marble sink. 

He needs to clean up. 

The medkit in his cabinet has needle and thread, sterile wound wash that burns. It’s a practiced motion that stitches the pieces of his cheek back together, soothing in how rhythmic and simple it is--something slow and entirely controlled. 

A high-pitched alert from his comm-unit makes him flinch, and he hisses as he jerks the last stitch into place. He curses under his breath, even as he ties off the thread and replaces the supplies and kit. He keeps his motions unhurried, makes himself take his time. 

Let Jack flounder, for once.

Gabriel sinks down into his chair with a heavy sigh and rolls his shoulders, stares at the flickering notification of an incoming call. He knows Jack’s angry, even before he hits the button to answer.

The screen flashes, connects, and then Strike-Commander Morrison is staring at him. He’s sitting rigidly upright and too close to his monitor, with his brows drawn and face tight--there’s bags under his eyes, Gabriel notices. He wonders how long they’ve been there, when the last time Jack got a decent rest was. 

“What the hell happened out there?” Jack snaps, aggressive right off the bat, and Gabriel lets out a breath. He suddenly finds it much harder to care about how much sleep the Strike-Commander is getting.

“Hello to you too, Jack.” Gabriel deadpans the words, makes sure that he sounds as tired as he feels--but not because he thinks that will deter Jack in his pursuit to lecture. 

It never has, and he fears it never will.

“Answer me,” Jack orders, leaning even closer to the screen. It’s painfully obvious that he’s working very hard to keep himself under control, to keep from yelling; trying to make sure Gabriel can’t see his frustration. He’s always been the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve, and Gabriel wonders if maybe that was what made him the ideal pick for Strike-Commander. 

Easy to read, easy to control.

“I’ve got the UN up my ass demanding reports--that was supposed to be a stealth mission. In and out, quick and quiet. And instead, half of Jahra saw one of Overwatch’s planes get shot out of the sky.” He pauses, takes a breath; lets it out on a sigh of, “We lost six agents, Gabriel. What the hell?”

Gabriel drops his head into one hand, rubs at his temple with his thumb. His head aches.

“We were outgunned and outmaneuvered. I couldn’t--”

“You knew they had anti-aircraft when you when in, Gabriel, don’t give me that shit.” Jack shakes his head, the lines in his forehead getting more severe as he scowls. “You should have planned around it.”

“What--planned around flying out of Kuwait?” Gabriel looks up, exasperated. “Did you want us to walk?”

“I wanted you to survive! To make the mission a success! You’re _supposed_ to be our best tactician--”

“I _am_ our best tactician--”

Jack slams a hand down hard on the table, making his screen jolt. “Then _why_ do I have six unrecovered corpses?”

He’s answered by silence.

Gabriel stares hard into the holoscreen, and feels a muscle in his jaw twitch; it pulls on the new stitches in his cheek, makes them ache. He flicks his tongue out in a quick lick over his lower lip, tastes the salt and copper still there, and does everything he can to keep from screaming.

“I did the best I could, with what I had,” he eventually says, his voice tight and icy, holding back a million unnamed emotions--things too heavy, too painful, to deal with and examine right now, with his body still sore and his wounds still fresh and Jack’s disappointment all but a tangible mass in the room with him. “Our intel was wrong, half our gear is broken or outdated--”

“That’s not good enough, Gabriel!” Jack cuts in, his voice vitriol, and it’s the pressure inside Gabriel bursts. His fists hit the flimsy desk hard enough to nearly buckle the legs, to knock over the bottle of water sitting nearby. The holo-screen falls askew, capturing his image on a sharp tilt, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Gabriel spits, and doesn’t miss Jack’s startled response; instead savours it as he continues in a heated rush, “If you think this is easy, that I just don’t _care_ , then you have a really _fucked up_ sense of perception! When was the last time you actually _went_ on an op, _Commander_?”

Jack opens his mouth to retort, and Gabriel decides not to give him a chance. “I’ve seen all the mission reports, all the agents’ assignments, _sir_ \--” he spits the title out like venom, fuck the consequences, “and ‘ _Morrison, John_ ’ was never on them! You have absolutely _no_ idea what we’re doing, what we’re going through, what we’re _dealing_ with on a fucking daily basis! Cobbling together broken equipment to keep us alive just a little longer, or spending weeks on recon _praying_ for a supply drop, while you ride around in limos to go to press conferences and sit through meetings and eat like a fucking _prince_ \--” 

“Y’know what? _Fine_.” Jack straightens up in the camera’s screen, color crawling up his throat, turning the milky flesh an angry red. “If that’s what it will take to stop this little pissing contest you’ve set up between Overwatch and Blackwatch, then fucking fine--I’m assigning myself as CO to your next operation.”

Gabriel recoils sharply. “You can’t do--”

“I am the Strike-Commander, and I _can_ do that.” Jack’s lips twist in an ugly leer that looks almost unnatural on his pretty face. “Ready your gear, because we move out tomorrow. I’ll see you at 0600, _Commander Reyes_.” 

The screen cuts out in a quick wash of black. Gabriel stares at it for a bleak moment, then slams a fist down against his thigh with a barked yell of frustration. He leans back in his chair and scrubs a hand down his face, focuses on the throb of his leg matching the beat of his heart. 

0600--that leaves him only four hours of sleep, by the time he gets his debriefings done and his reports filed and his gear cleaned. His only comfort is that he can remember times that he’s had to do more on less. He tells himself he’ll be fine. 

He has to be.

-x-

It’s ultimately just strange, being on a mission with Jack again.

It brings back things Gabriel had thought long gone--feelings of camaraderie when he sees Jack strap his armor on, a sense of closeness he’s been missing--and for a moment it’s all too easy to let himself fall into that trap, to see Jack as his young but loyal second-in-command, always watching his back and looking out for him.

But that Jack and this Strike-Commander Morrison are two very different people.

“Alright, agents.” His voice rings out in the small carrier, all business and importance; all he’s missing is the microphone. But even as he speaks, all the agents’ eyes stay on Reyes; watching him to gauge his reactions to Jack’s words, looking for tells on how they should be receiving the Strike-Commander’s speech. He sees the confusion in their faces and silently shakes his head, dismissive; now is not the time for their questions, for the challenges he knows will be brought up. 

Gabriel’s agents shift, nerves rolling off of them in waves--and Jack is oblivious. McCree, standing behind Morrison and in Reyes’ line of sight, makes a sign against evil on his breast. Gabriel rolls his eyes, but can’t blame him. 

Part of him wants to make one too, but wonders if it’s too late.

“--and get back home safely. Any questions?” Jack looks around the transport, a practiced smile on his face. He’s still clueless to the silent exchange between everyone else on the plane, the discomfort and distrust shared among the agents who are each other’s family. It needles in the back of Gabriel’s mind, as he grabs his pack off the overhead storage shelf--how could he even _think_ he had a chance of successfully integrating himself into Reyes’ pack? This is his team, his squad, his people. His family. 

Jack is the interloper here, and Gabriel--Gabriel is, honestly, too tired to be angry at him for it. He just wants to go home, eat the mess hall bare, use up all the hot water in the whole damn base, and sleep for a week.

Instead, he hops out after Jack’s blazing blue duster, and lands hard on the Colombian jungle floor.

Jack spends another five minutes reviewing their call signs, testing comms--all things Gabriel would have done before dismount--and he wants to chide Jack for wasting their time, giving the enemy a chance to spot them, overhear them. Gabriel knows he taught him better, back in the days of the Crisis.

But--as Jack has been so keen to point out--this isn’t his op anymore. Around them, their support shifts, restless and unsettled. They want to be gone, want to be mobile. They know this isn’t the way things are supposed to go.

“Move out,” Morrison finally barks, in his best Commander Voice; he starts forward, but the Blackwatch operatives don’t budge. Everything is quiet save for the chatter of the jungle around them when Jack comes to a halt again, and then Gabriel is very suddenly aware of the eyes of his agents on him-- _his_ operatives, waiting for _his_ orders. He can’t hide his smirk.

“Move out,” he echos, and flashes Jack a smug look as they disappear into the undergrowth.

And Jack--coddled golden boy that he is--has the gall to look incredulous, his eyes narrowed at Gabriel. Being Strike-Commander had gotten him used to people obeying his every word without question; but Gabriel is certain that he’s due for a rude wake up call today.

This is Reyes’ pack--his wolves, his outcast dogs, his dregs and undesirables, given new purpose under his leadership and _thriving_ in it.

This is _his_ operation, with _his_ team. Jack is just along for the ride.

-x-

They hike for four miles, searching for their target, before Jack calls for a rest.

Gabriel rolls his eyes when he hears the command--his men have trained to go harder for longer, but he can see the way Jack’s shoulders are heaving slightly, the sweat darkening his clothes. Gabriel slides down one of the nearby trees and pulls his shotguns free, deciding now is a good time to clean them since he’d been too tired to last night.

Around them, the agents shift. They have no idea what to do with the given break, so they revert back to base training: when coming to a small rest, set up a perimeter. No one looks or talks to Jack as they silently go about their business, all practiced efficiency as they place themselves around, keeping the commanders in the middle of their circle.

“Hey. You.” At the brisk address, McCree turns and shoots Jack a look that could kill the smaller fauna that run around them--it’s clear that he’s not happy about this change in leadership, but no one is. Gabriel still can’t blame them. “What’s our status?”

McCree stares at him a moment--incredulous--then deadpans, “We’re ten miles out from mission objective.” Beside him, Gabriel coughs, and McCree takes the hint to tack on in a near-bored tone of voice, “ _sir_.” 

Gabriel doesn’t miss the way Jesse’s eyes flick from Jack to him and back again, dark and almost angry; calculating something, though Gabriel has no idea what. He almost feels sorry for the kid--the youngest out of them all, thrown into an organization he has no chance of garnering any respect in. And judging by the way Jack’s eyes are locked on him, skeptical, he’s going to get flak about it, right--

“Aren’t you a little young to be running on an operation like this?” 

\--now.

Jack frowns and folds his arms across his chest, his brow raised, clearly expecting an answer. Around them--well trained though they are--Gabriel’s men and women turn their attention to the fight they know is going to break out. Quarrels beat border patrol any day.

Jesse’s eyes gleam. “I dunno,” he drawls, before his expression opens up into a friendly smile, tone honey-sweet. “Ain’t you a little old to be running around on the dirt, _pops_?”

Gabriel half-heartedly tries, but can’t keep in his snort of amusement. Jack’s narrowed gaze snaps from Jesse’s face to Gabriel’s, then back again, his voice clipped as he snarls, “That’s _enough_ out of you, agent.” 

He raises his gaze and his voice, looking around the little circle, color starting to crawl up his neck. “That goes for all of you. This is the weakest perimeter I’ve ever seen. Get to work!”

Amid some half-hearted grumbles and whispers, the agents fall back, widening the circle to put some distance between themselves and their commanders. As Jesse passes, he winks at Gabriel.

Gabriel just rolls his eyes, a satisfied smirk on his face; but it fades when he’s suddenly cast in shadow.

“You know,” Jack starts dryly, looming over Gabriel where he sits and pulls apart his gun, “I’m starting to get the feeling that these men don’t like me very much.”

“Mm.” Gabriel doesn’t bother to look up as he wipes his greasy hands off on his fatigues. “And whatever would give you that idea, _Commander_?”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Jack set his jaw. As if he’s trying to tell himself he is the bigger man--that he won’t stoop to Gabriel’s level of pettiness. They’re older now, they should be over this. “Their attitudes, mostly. The looks. I’m not stupid, Gabe, I can see what this is about--”

“You’re not stupid? Neither are they.” Gabriel looks up sharply, his gaze darkened and hard. His shotgun slots back together with a soft click,. He uncoils himself from his sitting position and straightens his spine, testing the weight of the metal in his hand almost thoughtfully. “Maybe if the people whose orders they follow--y’know, the people who make the messes that they have to _clean up_ \--didn’t treat them like thugs, they’d be a bit more eager to welcome you into the fold.”

Jack recoils, and the look of startled confusion on his face is almost enough to make Gabriel’s irritation fade. Almost.

“I...I’ve _never_ \--”

Gabriel snorts. “Believe it or not, the world doesn’t revolve around you, John Morrison,” he spits, slinging his shotgun up against his shoulder and calling his command to get his agents moving again. They snap to the order instantly, and something dark in him feels satisfied--because it’s another reminder that these are _his_ agents, on _his_ mission.

His Blackwatch, no matter what Morrison says.


End file.
